Tuesday, September 27, 2016

Poison Oak Bouquet

One day during the Fall in the early 1970s, we were hiking in Big Basin Park in the Santa Cruz mountains. It was sizzling hot, Indian Summer, the only evidence of Fall under the redwoods, were the brilliant splashes of red leaves of the poison oak, shining like sirens in the understory.

At the overlook, we interrupted a soldier on leave with his girl. He was dressed in army fatigues, and sounded like he was from Tennessee, probably stationed at Fort Ord. She looked like she had stepped out of American Bandstand. Ratted hair in a flip, big bows and buttons. Clearly visitors from another planet.

The soldier was busy gathering armfuls of brilliantly colored poison oak for his lady love. When they spotted us, instead of greeting us, they scowled, refused to make eye contact, and treated us as if we were invisible.

We watched, flabbergasted as he gathered armloads of poison oak. I said, Excuse me, sir...  Not quite knowing how to begin to tell him. He may have been rude, but no one deserved a fate like that—especially not his girl.

But being Californians, we were perceived as the enemy,  we were automatically labeled "hippies" with our long hair, etc., so they sneered at us, and of course, he refused to listen to my plea not to pick it. If anything, he went at it with a vengeance. Soon he had armloads of the stuff, which he deposited on his lady's lap.

It all must've ended rather badly. I bet they were both hospitalized...especially since they were so busy groping each other all afternoon long. By that evening, I'm sure there was no place left untouched, as it were. Worse than the seven-year-itch.

These beauties are from Soda Rock Lane, Healdsburg, 2009. I have the year wrong.

I once ran into a soldier from the Deep South on leave with his girl at Big Basin park in the Santa Cruz mountains—he was gathering armfuls of brilliantly colored poison oak for his lady love. We, being Californian, were perceived as "hippies" with long hair, etc., so they sneered at us, and of course, refused to listen to my plea not to pick it. It must've ended badly for them. I bet they were hospitalized...especially since they were pawing each other.

Indian Summer

First days of fall, time to put the summer sheets back on the bed. The hottest days of the year are always in September. This summer was so chill, I put flannel sheets back on in July. It's been an off again on again flannel sheet, weather. But I am considering putting on the summer sheets again. 

One year, the temperature climbed to 117, then to 119° in September, 1970? Walking along San Anselmo Avenue, in my new school clothes (wool, of course), hitching home from College of Marin. I keeled over and hit the sidewalk. It climbed to 119° later that afternoon in Fairfax. It was like an oven blast when the breeze blew in.

September has always been HOT! We called it Indian Summer. And it sometimes extends through October, but that's rare. Now it’s considered politically incorrect to call it Indian Summer. Somehow Native American summer doesn’t quite cut it.

Seasonal temperatures are often averaged out with night temperatures, so it's inaccurate. We may have as much as a 40 to 50° difference in temperature between night and day. The entire Bay Area summer has been deliciously cool while the rest of the nation fries. Small mercies. The air conditioner rolled in last night, so now we're back to cooler weather. 56°. The flannel sheets stay. Stet.

rev. from a Facebook post 9/20

Monday, September 26, 2016

Summer's End in the Alps

Wengen, overlooking Lauterbrunnen Valley. —Wiki

Summer's end in the Swiss Alps above Wengen, in the Berner Oberland, where I worked one summer, is not marked by the equinox, but by the vagaries of weather. When the grass no longer yields its bounty, the cows are driven down from high mountain meadows to winter pastures in the valleys below. That marks the end of summer.

I got to witness the Alpabzug (Désalpe) in 1972, I was transfixed by transhumance, a tradition that dates back to the ancient Celtic inhabitants—alp is a Celtic word.

Maurus Servius Honoratus, wrote that the mountains were called Alpes by the Celts. Possibly a pre-Indo-European word  for hill, alpe was a name for many mountainous regions besides the Swiss Alps; Albania, the Caucasus, and of course, Alba is another name for Scotland. 

My friend Claire spoke a Gallo-Italic language Romansh, (a "language spoken to kinder and cows"), which retains remnants of Celtic and Raetic languages (once spoken from the Rhine Valley to the Irish enclave, St. Gallen, and Tyrol until the 17th c.; mat/mac = boy).  

Wengernalp, overlooking Wengen, and Lauterbrunnen Valley. —Wiki

And I was told that Wengernalp, where most of the cows are summer-pastured in the shadow of the mighty Jungfrau, means cheek of the alp.

Each fall, after the Grand Cheese festival, after the cow-shareholders have collected their alpkäse shares, the cows are brought down from the alps by their Älpler cowherders dressed in traditional costume. They festively thread their way down the mountain, and parade down Dorfstrasse, the narrow main street of Wengen, a car-free village, which was probably once an ancient drover's road.
Hotel Bernerhof, my garret room for the summer was under the eaves on the far right.

The cows' hooves, waxed and shined, their rich cream and russet coats were shampooed, and brushed to perfection. Everyone stops what they're doing to witness the ancient annual passage of the cows. It is a time of celebration. Though I was working as a waitress setting up for lunch in the Hotel Bernerhof, I was unceremoniously shooed outside, in my apron, to witness the traditional passing of the cows. Apparently, some sort of transference of luck was involved.

Thank you Rolf & Wengen Switzerland for permission to use photos.

The queen cow (and her entourage) wear elaborate garlanded crowns made of a pine tree decorated with silk flowers and ribbons, Swiss flags, a cross (for protection from the sky), or mirrors (to ward off the evil eye), and real flowers: alpenrosen (almrausch), edelweiss, daisies, geraniums, even thistles, on their horns. 

The cows' parade finery is replete with a florid embroidered, and embossed leather forehead band, and collar studded with silver rosettes, which holds an enormous ceremonial bell, the size of a man's head, knelling in deep tongues. In spring, the herders themselves must carry the cowbells the last mile up to the alpine pastures. The cows don't wear those enormous bells all summer, only one day a year.  Their summer bells are much smaller.

The larger the treicheln (trychel, or hammered) bell, the richer the sound, and the farmer, so it is said. They're hefty klaxons, so the cows only wear them on parade. The bells are lined up like trophies under the eaves of the summer huts (Scottish: shielings.) The use of cow bells dates back to the Iron Age,  each note represents a specific cow. Some bronze bells are etched with edelweiss, and other floral, or geometric designs.

The queen of queens sets a regal pace, she knows she's Top Bossy. She lows, and aggressively shakes her horns at any interloper that attempts to pass her. If push comes to shove, bovine battles are settled with head-butting contests. In Combats des Reines: there can be only one queen cow, the Kranzkuh, (La Reine des Reines) to rule the collective herd.

Thank you Rolf & Wengen Switzerland for permission to use photos.

I don't know why some cows are also adorned with flowered surcingles, or cinches, as well as headdresses. Some sort of ranking order?  Fighting badges? Social equivalent to The Hulk's wrestling belt?

The heifers, the teenagers, follow up the tail of the herd, their horns sometimes dressed in diminutive greenery, perhaps a single rose, and they were adorned with dainty bells, that rang like silver spoons against bone china teacups. Next year, after they've borne their first calves, in their winter pastures in Lauterbrunnen, if they produce lots of milk, they too will graduate to wearing larger bells and full
headdresses. They too will have a chance to compete on the alpen slopes, and perhaps they too will dream of becoming queens for a day.

Thursday, September 22, 2016



First day of Autumn,
dress the bed in summer sheets—
No more summer fog.

Thermometer spikes
triple digits, welcome Fall—
No more flannel sheets.

Summer fog and mist
winter sheets, flannel nightgown—
I dreamed of the sun.

Temperature rises
No it's not global warming—
Indian Summer.

Fans patrol the room
too hot to sleep, crickets sing
a chorus to Fall.


Sunday, September 18, 2016

Scattergories as a writing framework

I turned a silly Facebook game into a writing exercise.

Scattergories are harder than you think. Every answer must start with the last letter of your previous answer. No fair Googling!

Name - Maureen
Animal - nudibranch
Girl’s name - Helen
Name a color - Naples yellow
Movie - Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory
Something you wear - yamaka
Drink - apricot juice
Food - eggs
Item in the bathroom - soap
Place - Petaluma
Reason to be late - absorbed in a good book

Now use them all in a sentence, a paragraph, or a poem.

Maureen, a nudibranch unfurls its finery at the sea where Helen's face launched a thousand ships, against a Naples yellow sky. Incongruous music from an old movie—what was it? Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. When's the last time you watched that? Can you still sing the songs? Who wore the yamaka? Yehiel was drinking apricot juice, the color of eggs. He carved a whistle from a bar of soap. Said he had to meet someone in Petaluma but she was absorbed in a good book, and didn't notice him leaving.

Name - Mo
Animal - ostritch
Girl’s name - Hermoine
Name a color - eggplant
Movie - To Kill a Mockingbird
Something you wear - dress
Drink - sambuco
Food - orange
Item in the bathroom - earrings
Place - Sausalito
Reason to be late - out late, slept in

Mo always wanted to ride an ostritch named Hermoine. Her thighs were the color of eggplant. You couldn't explain the significance of To Kill a Mockingbird to a bird that big, even if her eyelashes were a foot long—sans Mabelline. With that plumage, she was always dressed to kill. Mo took a sip of sambuco, and watched the orange orb lunge into the ocean like a high diver. She twisted her earrings, thought of the days when they raided the Trade Fair in Sausalito. Little thieves they were. She was out late, slept in. Insomnia came in the form of orange orbs floating just out of reach.

Now to change the categories:

State of mind, or feeling -sorrow
Animal or plant -wombat
Color, or a flower - turquoise
A line from a book nearest you - every step you take
    or a line from a song
An article of clothing - ermine cloak
A sound, or a musical instrument - klaxon horn
Something odd in your purse, wallet, 
   or on your nightstand -  name tag
A place, city, or country - Grenoble
Reason to be late/early - exercise
Famous last words - never a dull moment

The princess wore an ermine cloak over her gown of spun silver and turquoise. The klaxon horn sounded the battle cry. Sorrow was a wombat, the sea was restless. The banner unfurled and snapped to attention. Grenoble seemed so far away. Oh well, time for some exercise, a walk along the ramparts should be safe enough. Never a dull moment. Every step you take, brings you closer to the end of the story.

a variation: Every answer must start with the FIRST letter of your LAST name. 

Tuesday, September 6, 2016

Seeing Blue is a Modern Concept? Bah!

Tech Insider is flogging a video version of that annotated Radiolab post (a takeoff of a 2011 BBC production) on the newness of the idea of the word origin for blue by proclaiming: "No one could see the color blue until modern times." Wait a minute! They cite the research of Jules Davidoff, a psychologist from Goldsmiths University of London, on a Namibian tribe. His area of expertise is object recognition, color, naming, cognitive neuropsychology. Not art. Yeah, right. Are we having a leap of logic?

Tech Insider's coffee table video pompously opens with that famous, yet troublesome Homeric image, ἐπὶ οἴνοπα πόντον, epi oinopa ponton, the wine-dark sea. As if that phrase alone were proof-positive that no one in the ancient world could actually see, let alone, name the color blue. They (Grace Raver and Kevin Loria) built a hypothesis upon that harebrained notion:
Zeus had blasted and shattered his swift ship with a bright lightning bolt, out on the wine-dark sea. —Homer, The Odyssey, Book V
Homer was using metaphor, or rather, metalepsisἐπὶ οἴνοπα πόντον, translated as the wine-dark sea—was not meant to represent blue. It was translated into English from the Archaic Ionic Greek. Things get lost in translation. According to Homer's modern translator, American poet, Robert Fitzgerald, the literal translation is ''wine-faced (or facing) sea.'' From οἶνος wine + ὄψ 'face. But when he translated The Odyssey, Fitzgerald went along with Andrew Lang's 1880s prose interpretation, the wine-dark sea—because it sounded good. And the wine-dark sea has been with us ever since.

Homer, reputed to be blind, named the iridescent metallic sheen of the sea—ερυθρός erythrós, a tawny-red hue of bronze, and the copper-coloured sky, which paired nicely with the wine-faced sea. Homer's literal color palette was named after things of extreme value in the ancient world: bronze, copper, wine. It was about evoking the personification of wealth. Oh, and the Bronze Sea is also an euphemism for the Red Sea (named for its red plankton blooms).

And while we're quibbling, The Odyssey wasn't a book, it was an epic poem from the oral tradition. In ancient Greek, there was κυάνεος kyaneos a dark shade of blue, and γλαυκός, glaukos (or glafkós), pale blue with a pastel hue. (Minos' son, Glaukos, builder of Jason's ship, the Argo, who loved Scylla, ate a divine herb and was changed into a blue-skinned merman with verdigris hair.) Modern Greek also uses thálassi, from the word for the sea, θάλασσα, which stands in for the color blue. So maybe Θάλαττα! θάλαττα! Thálatta! Thálatta! also stood for the color blue and homecoming in Homeric Greek.
Then the
Tech Insider (aka Business Insider) video goes on to claim that we—none of humanity—couldn't possibly perceive the color blue until modern times. I'm upping my knee-jerk facepalm reaction to flat-out fisticuffs. Someone please tell Tech Insider and Radiolab: It's linguistics, Stoopid! Or maybe semantics. Or maybe it's a bad case of Linguistic relativity gone awry. But not the ancient world's inability to perceive or comprehend blueness. 

So, fast-forward: according to Tech Insider, the Middle Ages are now Modern Times? OK.... Oh, look! The first written usage of the word Blue dates back to ca.1300 AD. We have: bleu, blwe, etc., from O.Fr. blo "pale, pallid, wan. (Merriman). I won't go into the 98 synonyms for blue, in English alone. But I've compiled a list of some pre-industrial kinds of blue:
sky blue, midnight blue, azure, ultramarine, aquamarine, cobalt blue, bice blue, indigo, woad, sapphire, zaffre, lazurite, ice-blue, slate blue, turquoise, beryl, duck's egg blue, robin's egg blue, peacock blue, smoke blue, cornflower, gentian, hyacinth, periwinkle, madder blue, blueberry, teal, turquoise, cerulean, mazarine, livid (as in black & blue) or dead blue, aka mortuary blue... Pompeii blue, Persian blue, Aegean blue...
Who doesn't know Something borrowed, something blue, folkloric devices used to baffle the evil eye. equated with ancient wedding customs—when it was first notated in 1871. "Belief in the evil eye dates back to Classical antiquity. It is referenced by Plato, Diodorus Siculus, Plutarch, Pliny the Elder. In the Aegean,  people with green eyes, and especially blue eyes, are thought to bestow the curse. Thus, in Greece and Turkey amulets against the evil eye take the form of blue eyes." (Wiki) Apotropaic charms (nazars), dating from the 6th c. BC, are still used in the Mediterranean, the Levant, Egypt, and Morocco, the Middle East, and Afghanistan, to repel the evil eye. Blue eyes are still painted on the prows of Mediterranean boats. And even on the tails of airplanes.

A  tree armed with nazars in Turkey. Maybe they should've used goats.—Wiki

The quest for a stable true blue pigment has been a going concern since antiquity, and has been documented since the foundation of Christianity to the 19th century, when aniline dyes were invented, because the Virgin Mary always wore blue. Always. Byzantine images (ca. 500 AD) of the Virgin Mary depicted her wearing her signature dark blue mantle (usually made of precious lapis lazuli stone, or pigment.)

Keeping the Virgin's mantle blue, or the blue sky—blue—in a fresco or a painting, has been a going technical concern for artists—since like forever. Apparently it's not easy being blue. Most minerals make unstable, or fugitive pigments. Azurite (copper carbonate) aka mountain blue or Armenian stone, azurro della Magna, blue bice or blue verditer, was commonly used since antiquity. It was the chief source of blue during the Middle Age, but it has a nasty habit of turning green.  

Leonardo da Vinci complained mightily to the Almighty about having to use azurite (but it was waaay cheaper). Hans Holbiein the Younger painted a field azurite for a blue sky which is slowly turning teal. The mantle of the Madonna in Raphael's Madonna and Child Enthroned with Saints has been turning green over the ages because the azurite is weathering into malachite. 

Oil turns azurite green. Bright light, heat, and exposure to air will reduce the intensity of azurite, which can also go completely rogue and turn into black copper oxide. Treatises were written on how to stabilize azurite—or why paintings are varnished. My favorite cure—rub garlic on the sky before varnishing it to keep it blue.

Michelangelo couldn’t afford ultramarine, and refused to finish his painting The Entombment, because he couldn't get his hands on the prized pigment for love or money. Readily available azurite just wouldn't do. Vermeer mired his family in debt in his quest for the ultimate blue. Lapis lazuli, which literally means beyond the sea, was more valuable than gold

Azurite was often substituted for ultramarine blue, because "...the lone source of ultramarine was an arid strip of mountains in northern Afghanistan. ...the color was traditionally restricted to the raiment of Christ or the Virgin Mary." —True Blue, Paris Review.
Blue remains a muse precisely because it is a mirage. “Among the ancient elements,” writes William Gass in his treatise On Being Blue, “blue occurs everywhere: in ice and water, in the flame as purely as in the flower, overheard and inside caves, covering fruit and oozing out of clay.”...Eastern spiritualists have long associated deep blue gemstones, such as lapis lazuli, with the sixth chakra, or third eye, the seat of elevated consciousness in the human body. The Egyptian Book of the Dead recognizes lapis lazuli, carved in the shape of an eye and set in gold, as an amulet of inestimable power. Cleopatra, in common lore, wore powdered lapis lazuli as eye shadow.—True Blue, Paris Review.
Cobalt blue, used to make imitation lapis lazuli, wasn't cheap either. Cobalt ores were mined in Azerbaijan, Baluchistan, and Rajputana, India, but "Persia was the chief source of cobalt ores in the ancient world until the late Middle Ages; although there are also minor cobalt deposits in the western desert of Egypt south of Cairo." (Cobalt) In the early Middle Ages, cobalt oxide was used to color the stained glass windows of cathedrals. Cobalt is unique in that it is stable under both low and high heat conditions. Underglaze blue and white porcelain was made in the 8th c. T'ang dynasty; the Ming Dynasty (1400s) was famous for its cobalt underglaze ceramics—precursor to our Blue Willow pattern.

Blue faience hippopotamus, Middle Kingdom (2033-1710 BC)—Wiki

Clearly the ancients had a sense of color, and a real fondness for blue. The Sumerians used rare lapis lazuli on artifacts long before the Egyptians who first developed blue faience (they used copper oxide, not cobalt to color the sintered quartz). Egyptian faience was widely exported to Europe—as far away as Scotland. What was the Picts' favorite color? Blue woad, of course.

Egyptian blue or hsbd-iryt (calcium copper silicate), which means fake lapis lazuli, was the first synthesized pigment (1350 BC) was known to the Romans as caeruleum. The word, derived from cael(um, sky, heaven is embedded in the name. Clearly Romans and Egyptians knew what blue was. It was popular until the 4th c. AD. 

Another color, the wadjet eye was blue, blue-green, or sometimes the green of the Nile in summer. To suggest that the ancients couldn't perceive blue, (because we assume that they had no name for those colors? or they called it green because they couldn't see the difference?) is preposterously shallow thinking. They knew what blue was. And they knew how precious it was. The color of the heavens.

Greek and Roman temples and marble statues were painted in gaudy colors, including azurite-based blue. (See the blue-maned lion of Loutraki 550 BC). Ancient Classical mosaic tile murals used blue for sky and water, etc., not for trees. I won't mention Maya blue because I'm sticking to Old World examples of blue.
Ladies in Blue, Palace of Knossos, (Heraklion, Crete) —Wiki

The Minoans, who predated the Greeks, were excessively fond of blue.
(The Aegean Bronze Age murals, the bull leaping frescoes. the dolphin, or flying fish frescoes, or the Ladies in Blue—lots and lots of blue was used.) Blue fresco color could shift, but not blue glazed pots. Or mosaic tiles. Copper oxide, iron, or cobalt oxide was used. Cobalt glass (smalt) was ground up and used as pigment.

Ancient glassware of the Levant was often colored blue. We're not talking of the natural green hue of iron in glass, but real cobalt blue. Ancient Greek κυανός, transliterated as kýanos, means "dark blue". What color is dominant in Greek villages? Green lintels and doorjambs? Nope. Blue, bleu, blau.

Another Greek word for blue is sappheiros, blue stone—probably meant lapis lazul as the modern word for sapphire is hyakinthos
; from the Sanskrit śanipriya, beloved of the planet Saturn (which is bluish in the sky.) The ancient Greeks also used a specific word for pale blue, γλαυκός glaukós, blue-green, blue-grey which also appears in Homer. ( Proto-Indo-European *gleh₂w-ko.) 

True, there were fluid boundaries between blueness to greeness or even yellowness in many cultures—including Navajo, and Chinese 青 (qīng). But that fluidity is true of many colors. And bruises too. It really came down to context. No one thought the grass and sky were one color. Or that they couldn’t see the difference. That’s myopic thinking on our part.

What evidence is there that blue was a predominant color? Well, let's see, the entire foundation of the Bronze Age was built upon the extraction of copper ore—and copper ore yields azurite,
"a soft, deep blue copper mineral produced by weathering of copper ore deposits." They went through many workarounds to stabilize that blue in faience, glass, and pigment.

Fresh mined azurite crystals from Špania Dolina, Slovakia —Wiki

Of course people could see that color wedged between green and violet. Blue is an integral part of the color spectrum. Rainbows never lie. Sure, Xenophanes described the rainbow with only three bands of color: porphyra (Tyrean purple*), khlōrós (light green), and erythrós (ruddy red). But the Greeks also believed the entire universe was composed of three elements: Air, Earth, Water (Fire was a reaction). Purple and red were considered the most costly of royal colors. Besides, it sounds like Xenophanes was describing the interference pattern of a supernumerary rainbow (pink, purple and blue-green hues).

We tend to conventionally acknowledge seven colors of the rainbow: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet (ROYGBIV), because Sir Isaac Newton in his prism treatise, Opticks (1704), said so. But the lensmaker was a bit blind, and originally named only five colors of the visible spectrum. "The originall or primary colours are Red, yellow, Green, Blew, & a violet purple; together with Orang, Indico, & an indefinite varietie of intermediate gradations." (Now the word Orange is a fairly new concept dating from the 16th c. Sometimes colors didn’t have their own names. People could see orange, but described it as yellow-red.)

Goethe's symbolic colorwheel (1809) —Wiki
Bowing to the ancient Greek sophists, Newton later threw in orange and indigo so it would be analogous to the number of notes in a musical scale (which in turn bowed to the Sumerian love of seven.) Plato was pretty keen on the idea of math and music defining the "harmonies of the cosmos." Natural philosophers were not afraid to shoehorn science into popular thought processes.

German poet and artist Goethe wrote a psychological study on the nature, function, and psychology of color in his 1810 treatise, Theory of Colours. "Blue still brings a principle of darkness with it. This colour has a peculiar and almost indescribable effect on the eye.... As the upper sky and distant mountains appear blue, so a blue surface seems to retire from us. ...light and its absence, are necessary to the production of colour.... Colour itself is a degree of darkness.") (Maria Popova, Atlantic Monthly)

Cyanometer Horace-Bénédict de Saussure 1760 Wiki
Then there's the pursuit of royal blue, and later, royal purple in the cloth dying industry. In Mesopotamia, a 7th c. BC cuneiform tablet preserves an indigo recipe for dyeing lapis-colored wool (uqnatu). The Greeks imported ινδικόν indikón, indigo dye from India. The Romans Latinized the term to indicum. Indigo was in high demand across the ancient world. (During the Edo period, silk was forbidden, so the Japanese dyed cotton with indigo.) In North Africa, to this day, cloth dyed with indigo signifies wealth.

Byzantine Emperor Justinian I in Tyrian purple, 6th-c mosaic Italy

The Phoenicians of Tyre made an indigo dye from a species of marine snail, but Tyrian purple dye from murex shells was a rare commodity. Phoenicia, from the Greek, phoinós means the land of purple, or, dark red. Tyrian purple was also called Tyrian red. The ancient idea of purple was more of a violet-maroon color. They sometimes over-dyed indigo with purple. There are records of the dye in Ugarit and Hittite texts ca. 14th c. BC, but the Minoans may have invented the process of making Imperial purple ca. 20th–18th c. BC, centuries before the Tyrians (ca. 1570 BC).

Then the video claims there was no word for blue in Hebrew.  Really? What color is the tzitzit on the tallit /prayer shawl again? According to a biblical commandment (15:38), a blue threadtekhelet (תְּכֵלֶת) is included in the tzitzit (תכלת), and that blue (or blue-violet) is the same color mentioned 49 times in the Torah. A sea snail, Hexaplex trunculus, produces a blue which could be tekhelet. (But it was excluded from this video as a synonym for blue because it can also represent purple or black.)

Modern Irish Color chart. Go raibh maith agat for translating Google image

In Irish, one of the oldest Indo-European languages, gorm is the word used for the color of the sea, and for blue eyes. (Proto-Celtic *gurmos.) Sometimes glas (green) was also used for blue. Or glastum the color of blue dye extracted from dyer's woad (cabbage family—they also used whortleberries for blue dyes). Glas may refer to grey-blue eyes, or green grass, but not bright dyed green, uaine (uaithne). They combined words for more blue shades: gormghlas for azure, gormuaine for blue-green. They also distinguished between gorm and glas and uaine. (Líath means grey or light blue.) Why? Because there are words for blue.

Scots Gaelic comes from the Irish, note the similarities.

What color was Krishna again? Oh yeah, blue. Blue symbolizes divinity in many cultures.

Krishna, from Sanskrit Kṛṣṇa, dark or dark blue, has jambul-colored skin.—Wiki

You can see things without specifically naming them. Aren't we really flogging another version that horse, can one think without words? "Steven Pinker notes that we are not born with language, so that it is not likely that we are engineered to think in words alone." But that's another argument.
Yes, Claude Lévi-Strauss wrote extensively about how color patterns were connoted in ancient texts. Light/dark, red/yellow; green, purple. Then blue. But if we look at the light/dark idea, colors tended to be divided along that system, vs. names. Blue can be either light or dark. Maybe instead of looking for ancient words to represent blue, we need to look at synonyms for darkness.

The video asks: Can you see a color if you don't have a word for it? Apparently certain animals can see blue. Satin bowerbirds and chimps can see blue—even owls and pigeons can see blue. So the ability to see blue predates speciation and also language. The human eye can detect a million colors, (and some women, who have four types of cone cells, can see even more colors), but the ancients couldn't perceive the color blue in days of yore? Hmmmf. Not buying it.

Then the video claims that blue is exceedingly rare in nature. What?
There are wild blue anemones, asters, baby blue eyes, bellflowers, bluebells, blue camas, blueberries, chicory, cornflowers, campanula, crocus, delphiniums, flax, gillia, hydrangea, hyacinths, irises, indigo, larkspur, lobelia, lupine, nigella, periwinkle, rosemary, sage, scilla, bluejays, bluebirds, cerulean warblers, blue buntings, indigo buntings, lazuli buntings, azure tits, blue tits, kingfishers, macaws, quetzalbirds, the oceans, lakes, oh yeah, the sky. Rainbows too.
Jules Davidoff's logic is either seriously flawed or it's misinterpreted. His study was based on one primitive African tribe who were probably freaking out just by looking at a computer monitor... Cathodes emit a mixture of three color frequencies and trick the eye into assuming other color exists via interpolation. Had the Namibian tribe been showed something borrowed, something blue from their native environment like a Where's Waldo experiment, instead of using a pinwheel on a phosphor screen, the study might hold some merit.

As it turns out "
This striking "experiment" was a BBC dramatization, and the description of its "results" was invented by the authors of the documentary, and not proposed or endorsed by the scientists involved." In other words, bad popular science strikes again. Can you spell FAKE SCIENCE?

Some of this stinking thinking dates back to 1858 when politician (4 x Prime Minister) who championed Irish Home Rule, and Classics scholar, William Gladstone
(1809 - 1898) conducted a survey of ancient written languages and noted that the speakers did not name colors precisely or consistently as modern English speakers. In other words, they didn't use the names of colors as abstract nouns. He erroneously concluded that because there was no consistent word for blue in Greek, " ... that the organ of color and its impressions were but partially developed among the Greeks of the heroic age." And apparently we've been parroting that idea ever since.

Winding back to Goethe's emotional equivalences, here's another take on the wine-dark sea:
Homer describes the sea as wine-dark following a tragedy. Odysseus mourns the death of his men after a shipwreck, when they’ve been swallowed up by the wine-dark sea. Achilles mourns the death of Patroclus looking out on the wine-dark sea. 'The idea is that the sea is dangerous, it's captivating, it's intoxicating, just like wine', he says. 'It's much more than just the colour, it's more about what the object-metaphor is encouraging us to think about'. Amanda Smith—Were the ancient Greeks and Romans colour blind?
About that wine-dark sea—let me reiterate, that's a modern translation, Andrew Lang and Robert Fitzgerald's poetic license. Homer actually wrote: the wine-facing sea. He may have been depicting the sea at sunset, or even a toxic red tide algal bloom—always cause for alarm.

In The Sea Around Us science writer Rachel Carson wrote:
The sea is blue because the sunlight is reflected back to our eyes from the water molecules or from very minute particles suspended in the sea. In the journey of the light rays into deep water all the red rays and most of the yellow rays of the spectrum have been absorbed, so when the light returns to our eyes it is chiefly the cool blue rays that we see. Where the water is rich in plankton, it loses the glassy transparency that permits this deep penetration of the light rays. The yellow and brown and green hues of the coastal waters are derived from the minute algae and other microorganisms so abundant there. Seasonal abundance of certain forms containing reddish or brown pigments may cause the “red water” known from ancient times in many parts of the world, and so common is this condition in some enclosed seas that they owe their names to it — the Red Sea and the Vermilion Sea are examples.
What makes this presentist theory, or modern speculation that the Classical world had defective color vision all rather funny is that before Newton's Opticks was published in 1704, even European poetry was a bit bland on the naming of colors. That's why French Surrealist poet, Arthur Rimbaud's 1884 breakthrough poem celebrating colors, Voyelles was such a big hit—it took poetry into the visionary realm of artists.
Blue O, great Trumpet blaring strange and piercing cries
Through Silences where Worlds and Angels pass crosswise;
Omega, O, the violet brilliance of Those Eyes! —Voyelles
Also, our relationship to the naming of color in literature has changed radically since the 18th c. (coupled with the revolutionary discovery of aniline dyes in 1856 which, for the first time produced a wide range of bright, stable colors—the first color? Purple!).

(An aside:
The Greeks were astonished that their clients, the neighboring Celts drank their imported Greek wine neat, (and were thusly barbaric), as civilized people always diluted their wine with water.  I've seen watered down homemade Italian wine turn purple, then blue. Try it sometime with Mogen David wine too. The blueness of the wine might have something to do with the pH of spring water. Oh, and BTW, those green traffic lights are actually azure blue. We just call them green.)

Lapis lazuli, lazulum, stone from heaven's skies. —Wiki

All this talk of blue and I am reminded of Robert Francis's poems: 


Pick any blue sky blue   cerulean   azure
cornflower   periwinkle   blue-eyed grass
blue bowl   bluebell   pick lapis lazuli
blue pool   blue girl   blue Chinese vase
or pink-blue chicory alias ragged sailor
or sapphire   bluebottle fly   indigo bunting
blue dragonfly or devil's darning needle
blue-green   turquoise   peacock   blue spruce
blue verging on violet    the fringed gentian
gray-blue   blue bonfire smoke   autumnal
haze   blue hill   blueberry   distance
and darker blue   storm-blue   blue goose
ink   ocean   ultramarine   pick winter
blue snow-shadows   ice   the blue star Vega.

and his


Winter uses all the blues there are.
One shade of blue for water, one for ice,
Another blue for shadows over snow.
The clear or cloudy sky uses blue twice-
Both different blues. And hills row after row
Are colored blue according to how far.
You know the bluejay's double-blur device
Shows best when there are no green leaves to show.
And Sirius is a winterbluegreen star.
Robert Francis